


Any Other Night – 2/9 – Zero to One

by motsureru



Series: Any Other Night [2]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-13
Updated: 2007-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:38:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motsureru/pseuds/motsureru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Broken Glass, a Sylar/Mohinder-centric continuation after Season 1.  Spoilers for Season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Other Night – 2/9 – Zero to One

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [hugh](http://hugh.livejournal.com/) for beta work~ ****

**Teaser:** _“When you discover something… something that was so absolutely_ inconceivable _to you before, Mohinder, you’ll know what it feels like.”  
  
_

 

.2 Zero to One.

 

            There was disappointment. Maybe he was toying with unrealistic expectations, or even aspiring unknowingly to the atmosphere of weeks ago, but Sylar had anticipated something more than the hum of the car engine and Mohinder’s rapidly beating heart as his companions on a fresh road trip. 

            When he cast sidelong glances over at Mohinder, the man looked tense. He had acted smoothly enough, renting them a car under a false name and sneaking him around as unnoticeably as possible through a city that knew a cleaner version of his face, but Sylar noticed the way Mohinder’s blood pumped in rapid bursts and his jaw tightened unconsciously when he fell silent.

            Sylar found himself tapping his fingertips against the car door handle in a steady rhythm aligned to Mohinder’s heartbeat. He didn’t notice it until an hour or two into the ride, once they’d made it well out of the city. It was torture beyond the hatred of mistrust, Sylar found. Mohinder wasn’t speaking, didn’t even seem to care if they spoke, but Sylar couldn’t think of a single thing to say that might further his cause. A single thing to say that didn’t seem misplaced and awkward. They’d lost some kind of connection.

            “Where did you go this morning? Before I woke up?” Sylar finally asked, having to break the silence with _something_ before he went insane. He needed to hear something besides the rush of cars around them, needed to be distracted from the honk of horns. On some unconscious level, he even needed the attention.

            “I crossed the city a couple of times. To get money,” Mohinder answered, hands tightening on the steering wheel for a second. Casual, casual Mohinder. He let out a little breath and pulled his scarf free from his neck. It was getting warm.

            Sylar raised an eyebrow and looked over at the man. “I thought you were getting money from Bennet.”

            “I did,” Mohinder confirmed with a small nod. “But I wanted to make sure that if I got caught on camera it was in several places around the city. So if the police try to track us they won’t know where we left from.” Mohinder had been smart about all this; Sylar appreciated that. Mohinder’s cleverness was something Sylar admired in the man. “I don’t want Bennet’s help to be for nothing,” Mohinder added.

            A small scoffing noise came from Sylar’s throat and he reached forward, hitting the power button on the radio. He began to search through the stations. 

            It was Mohinder’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Bennet’s helping us out a lot. Money, a fake identity, even the place to stay,” he reminded in a small lecturing tone.

            “He wouldn’t be helping you if he knew I was here,” Sylar pointed out, settling on a New York station they could still reach. Bobby Darin’s voice began to sound through the speakers, but the song was almost over. “I don’t owe Bennet anything. He’s lucky he’s not-” Sylar stopped, hesitating to complete that sentence in front of Mohinder. “After what he-” Sylar paused again and leaned back against his seat with a small sigh through his nose. “Never mind.”

            _He’s lucky he’s not dead, huh?_  


            Mohinder paused to choose his words carefully before he spoke. “What Bennet did to you was wrong. I don’t disagree with that. But he was under the direction of far worse people at the time, wasn’t he?”

            “Just because someone says you should torture someone doesn’t mean you have to enjoy it,” Sylar interjected quickly. “I know what I saw on his face, and know what he’d do again if he had the chance.” 

            “I’m not foolish enough to reject the help he’ll give me when I need it. I won’t turn down his help on principle,” Mohinder replied firmly, feeling his palms sweat a little against the wheel. He was touching a sore spot in Sylar’s memory, and his defensiveness was proof of that. Mohinder just needed the right words. “If I still operated on principles alone, you’d be in worse shape than being helped indirectly by Bennet. You wouldn’t be here.”

            “…” Sylar turned his eyes over to Mohinder, some mixture of stubborn anger and embarrassment buried in his gaze. It was as if for a moment he’d forgotten what a strong person Mohinder could be; but now the man’s words brought back memories of gun barrels at his forehead and firm hands gripping his throat from a hospital bed. 

            Mohinder looked back briefly, asserting his seriousness, before settling his eyes on the road again. It was a point he wouldn’t back down on. Michael Buble’s smooth voice began to roll through the car, playing his inappropriate but moving rendition of “Feeling Good.” The humor was somehow lost. 

            Sylar looked out the window instead, arms resting crossed over his chest. He was sure now that Mohinder had shut him out. He itched to figure out how to get back inside. He couldn’t do small things to seduce or entice like before, not here in this enclosed space. He wasn’t a good talker now, either; not when Mohinder knew that personalities like Zane Taylor were fake. All Sylar could think of were the ways he thought Mohinder would put down his casual conversation with that stoic demeanor and mistrust of his words. In his mind, Sylar had reasoned that no matter what he said, Mohinder would assume they were lies again, like the last road trip. It was stressful to Sylar to think of his own failure in advance. Since when had he agonized over what to say to Mohinder? This was more torturous than knowing his list lay only feet away, crammed haphazardly into a compact suitcase.

            Fortunately for Mohinder, he was used to putting on faces to hide his thoughts. Family, colleagues, people interested in his work for selfish or dangerous reasons; Mohinder was used to shutting them out and locking himself up tight. That need was exacerbated now by the knowledge of their last encounter on a trip like this together: the one time when he’d opened up, given out the vulnerable, needy, optimistic side of himself without hesitation. The memory of betrayal shouldn’t have stung Mohinder anymore, but in some ways it still did. Even so, it was more than just that now, too. Their relationship, whatever it was, was on a whole new level now. He had to deliberate over what words to say.

            The spark of apprehension between himself and Sylar now was more than obvious. Mohinder couldn’t think for the life of him what he could say to the man, what common ground he could form. He wanted to encourage Sylar to keep opening up, wanted to keep hunting inside for his goodness, but he didn’t want to open a part of himself in the process; Mohinder had already learned of that danger. 

            So how should he do this? How had Sylar tried to connect in those first days? Sylar had built a shaky bridge between them… and hadn’t it been made of inappropriate comments and a wry sense of humor? They spoke… they spoke and it had been of theories, of Sylar’s nature, of his…

            “I’ve figured you out,” Mohinder stated, breaking hours of silence. Boldness. Sylar had been bold, and that was why things had turned out like they did. He, too, had taken initiative in conversations. He just had to reaffirm that decision.

            Sylar sat up in his seat, rubbing an eye. “Excuse me?”

            “I think I’ve got it.” Mohinder couldn’t help but smile a little. He could make this casual. His confidence grew just by thinking about how he’d poke at Sylar’s pride and make him talk about himself. “Your power. How you do it.”

            Sylar ran a hand over the dark stubble marking his chin and watched that self-satisfied look Mohinder was trying to suppress. He smiled to himself, amused. “Are we going to play a guessing game? Until you get it right?”

            “I don’t need to guess, I’ve got it,” Mohinder replied simply, tapping his fingers for a moment on the steering wheel. There was a kind suspense, a sort of tension building between them again, but this time Mohinder didn’t mind it. He was too busy figuring out how to soften Sylar’s disposition.

            “Well then, Doctor Mohinder Suresh, give it a go. Explain me away,” Sylar mused, adjusting his arms over his chest.

            “You…” Mohinder paused, trying to find words that didn’t sound completely simple. “You understand things. On some inherent, operating level. Some basic structure. Right?” he queried, glancing to his right. He saw Sylar tilting his head a little, as though that power were at work this very instant to see inside.

            “What makes you say that?” the man countered calmly. His own heart began to race a little. Was it excitement?

            “Well… I know it’s something my father couldn’t see- that no one could see. That ‘natural intuition’ I mentioned last week. And your job… I mean, it could just be a compulsion, but when you first came to my apartment you fixed every broken object you could get your hands on,” Mohinder explained. “And…” he hesitated, now. A flush of blood began to overwhelm his skin. “I had forgotten, until… yesterday. What you said to Peter Petrelli that day he came to my apartment. ‘I’d like to see how that works’…” Mohinder felt that blush beginning to burn high upon his cheek bones. “…You said… you ‘knew how it works.’ Yesterday. In bed.”

            Sylar sat utterly still for a moment, letting that fact sink in. His own pale face colored just barely, and he looked out the windshield instead. Had he really let such a thing slip? Mohinder obviously wasn’t stupid; he could put the pieces together. He heard as his silence heightened Mohinder’s exhilaration over that leap of faith.

            “Aren’t I right? You ‘see how things work’? Then, when you see the brains…” That was the part Mohinder was still puzzled by. He bit his lip softly. What could he possibly have done with each of those brains after Brian Davis? This was the point Sylar knew he was stuck on.

            “I eat them,” Sylar inserted the answer.

            Mohinder nearly choked on his own breath and leaned forward a little, eyes darting quickly to Sylar. “You _what?!_ ” 

            A wide grin broke across Sylar’s face, and he reached over, giving a small tug on one of Mohinder’s curls. “You’re next, you know? They’d be good with curry. I try to dabble with both my talents at once: cooking, brain stealing.”

            Mohinder’s muscles tightened and he straightened in his seat, pulling away. His face burned brightly beneath his dark skin and his expression was less than amused.

            Sylar began to laugh softly and let his hand fall away. He liked the way Mohinder stiffened in fear beneath his touch- liked the way he withdrew in panic. It made a broader smile work at his lips to know he had that small, amusing amount of control over Mohinder- and yet, he feared that he loathed it as well. It meant that Mohinder may have given him access to his body, but that there was something different Sylar had not yet penetrated. Sylar wanted Mohinder to let him in for more than just a laugh. “I’m kidding.”

            “I knew that,” Mohinder snapped, leaning back in his seat. “It’s just a poor choice in jokes.” He huffed quietly, adjusting his hands on the wheel. 

            Sylar wanted to touch him – wanted to reach out and draw his fingertips against that hot cheek. He wanted to, but it seemed like a violation. It seemed too personal, in spite of their history. He’d make Mohinder stop flinching in fear, soon. He just needed to give him something to go on.

            “Can you imagine,” Sylar began, “what it’s like to look at a human brain and instantly understand the how and when, the reasons and functions, everything behind such an incredible little universe?”

            Mohinder’s pulse jumped at that. There it was again- that mystical, romantic way of speaking that Sylar got when Mohinder touched on something important to him. “Is that what happens? You see, literally, how the brains work? And then… you just get rid of it afterwards?”

            Sylar smiled again, but more to himself this time. When he looked over at Mohinder, the dreamy, jovial expression on his face was anything but Sylar. Zane Taylor was sneaking back into him- or perhaps this was the Gabriel Gray Mohinder had never known. “When you discover something… something that was so absolutely _inconceivable_ to you before, Mohinder, you’ll know what it feels like. I can hold the world in my hands and then become it. It’s an experience unlike anything else. And I wouldn’t just leave around such a valuable thing for others to obtain.”

            _Something absolutely inconceivable._ For an instant, the morning before crossed Mohinder’s mind, but he pushed that thought away quickly. “What do you mean, you become it?”

            Suddenly Sylar looked so very casually happy that it was surreal to see such a look on his face. “You really want me to tell you? I told you I wouldn’t, because you’re a scientist.”

            Mohinder gave a short laugh and shook his head. “Even if a scientist knows the answer to his question he can still be far from having tangible evidence. I could know what you do and still spend the rest of my life trying to prove it.”

            “It’s not that complicated at all,” Sylar countered, reaching between his knees to get a bottle of tea from their last rest stop. He paused to take a sip and then let the plastic rim linger near his lips as he thought of a good way to propose his ability. “Say you were a computer programmer. You can read codes- all those ones and zeros- like they were English. Then one day, you’re sitting at a computer, and suddenly you can see it even in its tangible forms- you see how… how every line, every letter, everything is made up of those ones and zeros, just by looking at it. If you understood every line and every number… then in theory couldn’t you rearrange them as you please to get whatever effect you wanted?”

            Mohinder listened carefully, and, moments after the words had paused, he remained silent to let their meaning sink in. His eyes narrowed in disbelief, and Mohinder glanced over at Sylar’s intent expression in the day’s fading light. “…Are you trying to tell me you can rearrange your own genetic code to match whomever’s you see?”

            Sylar turned his head to gaze back at Mohinder. Briefly, his face was blank, but within seconds he smiled, looking somehow content. “If you knew how, what would you do to yourself? Activate dormant parts of your brain? Pull up long lost memories? Your father was right the entire time- it’s all in the brain. The brain is everything, Mohinder.”

           He had to let those words take deeper hold inside. Mohinder released a slow breath and took an even slower one in. “That’s… incredible.” The very thought of an ability like that was so very far evolved from simple ones like flying; Mohinder and his father could have never predicted a person like this might come to be. Of all the Patient Zeros his father could have found, he had stumbled across this man. “To be able to know that… to be able to… the things you could do…” Mohinder’s mind buzzed with the multitude of ideas that spawned from the knowledge of Sylar’s capabilities.

            Sylar smiled a pleased, oddly proud sort of smile, leaning his elbow against the car door. He had impressed Mohinder on several levels, and reveled in that fact. Not only that, but Mohinder was no longer regarding him with that dangerous hesitation.

            “Have you even thought of the potential that kind of ability has?” Mohinder asked, that energized tone creeping almost imperceptibly into his voice. “Just think of the ramifications of having such a thing in- in something like the realm of medicine- being able to understand genetic defects- recode them- you could cure diseases, help theorize new ways of mapping the brain for those without that power, you could-”

            “Become a lab rat for Bennet and live a life under the scrutiny of someone’s microscope. I don’t want that,” Sylar interjected decisively, resting his chin upon his palm. “They already knew about my power and tried to ‘see how I work’ before. It’s less dangerous for me to be a nobody on the run from the police and FBI than to be someone reputable with good intentions.”

            “Someone special?” Mohinder asked, chancing another glimpse of the man.

            Sylar didn’t lift his eyes to return it. He gazed out of the window, where night was quickly falling now. “You know I am. Isn’t that enough?” 

            Mohinder fell silent. Was it? The earnestness of the question gave Mohinder butterflies in his stomach. 

            Sylar decided to change the subject abruptly. “Are we going to stop for food soon or find a place to sleep?”

            Mohinder swallowed. “Let’s… go ahead and get a meal.”

            

 

            “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Preston dragged a hand down his tired face, feeling the weight of his years bearing down on him. His eyes stung and his mouth was dry. He’d spent the day watching the crime scene investigators turn over every inch of Mohinder Suresh’s apartment, stomach tight and neck muscles aching from craning to see them work.

            The head of the team was standing before Preston and telling him exactly what he didn’t want to hear. “This place has been wiped down, Detective. We’ve looked it over a dozen times- your guys must have known we’d come back.”

            Preston gritted his teeth and pulled his fingers through his short salt and pepper colored hair. “Nothing? Not on a sink? On a toilet seat? Are you telling me I hounded this warrant for nothing? The only suspicious piece of evidence is a lack of evidence?” his voice began to rise dangerously on the last question, his frustration obvious.

            “Besides your suspicious chairs, Detective…” the CSI shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. “We’ve got nothing to compare to the ones we lifted off the Gray shop.” 

            Preston’s fists clenched tightly, and as he turned sharply away, he resisted the urge to plant his knuckles into the filthy wall of the apartment building hallway. Murphy’s usual string of swear words were dangerously close to the tip of his tongue. Had this all been for nothing? What was he going to come back with?

            “Detective Adrian Preston?” –a somber voice asked to his left.

            Turning a bit too quickly, Preston delivered the glare on his face to a stranger.

            She was a blonde, not terribly tall or short, with a slender frame, a nicely cut pants-suit, and an expression on her face that could have been his own, if only it hadn’t looked so naturally placed there. He could see that she wore the world with a chip on her shoulder; he figured that chip was the badge she produced before she spoke again.

            “My name is Audrey Hanson. I’m with the FBI. I think we should talk.”

            It was no surprise that Preston agreed.


End file.
